The Assassin Commoner
by Adrius Frostglare
Summary: On a stormy night, Lord Fausto of the House of Farramain takes his leisure time in his estate. The night will become more turbulent, however, as an assassin makes an attempt on his life.


The fire flickered and radiated its heat outward, warming the air and the walls. The man that sat in front of it sipped his tea and tightly held a book titled _'History and its Tyrants'_, his attention completely swallowed by its content. This cool, collected individual wore a black robe with white pinstripes, the inside stitched with a soft, velvet red textile. The room's lighting was an eerie contrast between the bright flashes of lightning from the rain outside and the soft, constant glow of the flames in the chimney. Upon the walls were tapestry and trophy heads of various wild animals, well-dusted shelves with neatly stacked books. Atop the chimney stood a gargoyle who, mischievously, held a mask onto his face. The mask had two faces, the right a smiling, happy, friendly fellow, the left a glaring, ominous, violent foe. One could not tell which one the gargoyle was, for his features were both grotesque and beautiful. Below the gothic figure was a shield in the shape of the mask, two great broadswords crisscrossing behind it.

The man licked his thumb and flicked a page, the top of his hands covered in black hairs. His chest, too, disclosed by the v-shaped night gown, was revealed to be coated in a thick carpet of ebony strands. His body was imposing, at least six feet tall, his muscles thick despite his stern, intellectual demeanor. His jaw was hard, the tip of his chin below the thin, pale lips decorated with a fairly lengthy beard that reached to his collarbone, though the area beneath his nose and along his jaw remained clean. His eyes were slanted daggers with thick eyebrows canopying them, as if to hide whatever he intended, or make it horrendously clear. His hair was like a great mane, tied to a ponytail at the tip and flowing down to the base of his neck, sideburns framing the edges of his face. He picked up the tea and sipped, turning another page.

He did not notice the door creak open and shut immediately after, the mute motion masterfully covered behind the noise of the elements outside. One shadow, slipping, moving beyond the command of the fire's flickering and the storm's blinding light, melted into the study. It was as if feet hardly touched the exquisite wooden floors, their task made all the easier by the luxurious carpet that covered them. This shadow slowly waxed inexplicably, its blackness consuming more of the room._ 'Not five minutes in and I already change. Oh, well. They said any sort of excitement could trigger it.'_

A creak. It looked down. Thankfully, the sound had been blocked by a thunderous clap. Determined, it resumed its task. It pulled out a long, reflective tool from its side, padding closer and closer at the unsuspecting victim. He could feel the glee, the joy, of completing his mission. He kept the bloodthirsty growl at bay, however. How difficult it had been to remain a silent killer, keep his emotions in check, after... no matter. Now was the time to strike. He lunged, wrapping his arms around the chair, stabbing repeatedly at it, the sound of shredding leather and cracking wood filling the room, cotton stuffing flying out in puffs and breaths as the steel punctured through. He stopped only after the fifth stab and looked at the chair.

Nothing. There was nothing there but a ruined piece of furniture. His confusion quickly melted into dire realization. A feral growl crept behind him. _'Shi-!'_

The shadow was tackled by another, even larger fiend, the assassin-turned-victim dropping his dagger in the process. A mass of claws and fangs tumbled and crashed against the torn chair, yelps and roars and growls issuing from their maws as they scratched and bit into each other's flesh. At last, the embrace was broken. The distance between them would remain empty for only a fleeting blink, but in the pause, time stood still long enough for them to regard each other, savage intellect evaluating their features, powers, and most importantly, weak points.

The assassin was dressed all in black, though the clothes were notably stressed. A few of the less stretchable parts had already torn. Canines rowed his mouth and large, yellow-green eyes remained wide with animal determination burning through them. His imposing body was covered in tawny-brown fur where it showed, corded, elegant muscles lined beneath. Now his muscles were exposed to the air, and blood steeped his coat. Long, black claws tipped with crimson were matched by equally stained fangs. A long, bushy tail protruded from his behind, and padded feet replaced flat soles.

His opponent, his target, was all the more terrible. A gargantuan, wolfish abomination with bloody red eyes and the teeth of a monster grown in his muzzle, positioned on all fours. His ponytail remained, though excessively longer. The rest of his body received the same treatment, a rough, thorough coat of ebony black hair overlapping every inch of his form. His physique was like that of a giant. Whereas the assassin's claws and fangs were dripping with blood, this one's were positively bathed in it, savoring every wet, warm scarlet ruby that painted him. His wounds were fewer and less severe, or perhaps he simply showed far more tenacity to see his foe dead. Like his nemesis, he had a tail, a bushy mess of sable strands, and two swift, padded feet. His night gown had seen better days, hanging loosely in some places and tightly constricted and torn in others.

The two had not spent five seconds apart when once again they sprinted at each other, gripping and clawing. The assassin, pinned below his larger enemy, thrust him back with a well-aimed kick to the chest. The black worgen coughed, but immediately returned its attention back to the fight, irritation growing higher as he pounced at the assassin. Rolling away, the assassin in turn counterattacked against his prey, now recovering from his landing, and bit into his shoulder. The black worgen let out a yip that rapidly became a roar as a swatted and clawed, scratching his opponent's face. In pain, the assassin let instinct take over and cried out as he let go, rushing toward a nearby window.

His enemy was not done. Not yet. There was no chance he would allow him to escape. Leaping with a dexterity that complimented his lithe but muscular physique, the black beast wrapped his fingers and dug his hooks into the other's back. His prey slipped away, but not without losing a fair bit of skin and yowling in exquisite pain. He tried again, this time successfully grabbing his foot and, standing upright, pulling him along the hardwood floor, his nails digging deeply into his flesh. The assailant squirmed and clawed at the floor, trying to avoid his inevitable fate.

The great black worgen stopped and gave the foe a final, glaring smile. His voice came out deep and gravely, like cobblestones ground together. "I win."

He whipped his hand, still holding the assassin, and flung it full force against the floor. He did this one, two, three , four, five times, each with a howl declaring glorious victory and a squeal requesting nonexistent mercy. Dazed, bloodied, and likely to have many broken bones, the assassin was released. He tried to crawl, but his muscles would not respond. He silently prayed for deliverance.

The black worgen casually walked toward the chimney and grabbed the shield and one of the broadswords. Cold, almost collected, but deep down still simmering with the sweet taste of dominance, he loomed over the pitiful ball of fur beneath him. He barked, "Who sent you? One of my adversaries, is it? Or perhaps some of the poor rabble managed to pool enough money to actually hire someone."

The assassin tried to reply. He really did. Instead of being able to let out the one thing that could have possibly saved him, the one chance to bargain for his life, he instead let out a gurgle of blood and a mournful whine. His jaw was shattered, his throat crushed. His fate was sealed.

The winner shrugged. "No matter." He heaved the shield and crushed the assassin's leg. One inhumane scream after another ravaged his throats and lungs as the torture continued, crimson-coated splinters of bone and cartilage protruding from his wound. "Teach you not to defy me, boy!" His hand was severed with a rapid slash, sliding on its own gruesome slick of blood. "You should know where you and the rest of your kind belong." His tail was next, ripped away with the butcher's bare hands and flung far across the room, a useless mat of hair, muscle, and bone that would very quickly lose whatever warmth it held. The assassin, now a victim of his own practice, foamed at the mouth but did not pass out. It was a fateful misfortune that the very training that had kept him alive now kept him awake for his great hour of torment.

"Mice, fleas, _dirt_ beneath my heels, all of you! I should bleed each and every one of you dry of all you have!" The black worgen paced around the fallen, broken body and placed his heavy, pawed foot over the temple of the weeping, drooling mess before him. His limbs, his entire muscular structure, was convulsing and spasming and shaking violently, his blood streaming out constantly from every severed limb, every new and unnatural orifice that gasped out to the surface to empty him of that which granted him the power to live. He would soon lose consciousness, sweet release from the unavoidable end that was to come, but the victor would not let him end while asleep. No, no, that was far too merciful. He would make sure his eyes would remain open perpetually to behold the last few seconds tick with painstaking sluggishness. "Now, how fitting... I'll make sure to make use of you yet, _peasant dog_. You will make excellent fertilizer for my land and a wonderful feast for my pets!" A final swing, and the neck was rend in two. The assassin's eyes rolled backward, and he was gone.

The battle was over, or rather the failed attempt on his life which ended in a twist of deliciously ironic retribution. Seconds after, a pair of heavily armored guards crashed through the door. One could hardly see past their defensive garments, but their shape was certainly not human by the looks of it. "My Lord! Where is the enemy that I may rip-"

"SILENCE!" Both guards whined and backed away. The large worgen shifted and shrunk, hair sinking into his skin. Only his feral eyes remained the same. "The pair of you are not worth what I pay you. Now look at my home! My carpet is torn, my floors are scratched beyond repair, and everything is speckled with blood!" He kicked the head of the assassin, who had also reverted to human form, the mortifying eyes coming to a stop beneath the guards and staring at them in horror. "Make yourselves useful and hang that on my gate. Whoever sent him will surely come to see if the deed was done. Post a sign detailing him a traitor to the nobility. And find out who he was, damn you! I want the one responsible to be hanged... or brought before me alive. Either one appeases me... and get me my servants and doctors!" He cleaned his blade with his tongue, the liquid overflowing and dripping down his chin. The guards only stared for a moment before he shot a murderous glance at them. "Well? What the hell are the two of you common swine looking at? GET HIM OUT THERE OR IT'LL BE YOUR HEADS!"

"Y-Yes, Lord Farramain!" With that, they rapidly picked up the head and escorted themselves out. Lord Fausto Farramain looked down at his kill and gave a fanged grin, digging his heel into the corpse as he smugly remarked, "I think this one was the most fun of all the attempts yet."


End file.
